music, of course, like “O Holy Night” and “The First Noel.” I spend a lot of the time scanning the backs of people’s heads, looking for anyone I know. I see Beth and Robin up near the front with their families.
I’ve heard this story before, how Christ was born in a manger and came here as the son of God to set us straight and redeem us. And it’s a nice story, but I’ve always wondered how anyone could buy it so wholeheartedly, to accept without question that there’s this being up there who loves us and forgives us, and waits for us to join him in Heaven.
There’s an old couple on my right, the woman in a flowery blue dress—she seems to be just about blind—and the guy in a brown corduroy jacket over gray flannel pants. And you know they believe with all their hearts.
Next to me is a quiet guy about thirty, who keeps his eyesclosed most of the service, like he’s concentrating on every word, nodding slowly with his lips pursed tight.
And the minister says something about following Jesus’ light by lighting the way for others. And I swallow hard and look around. The lady next to me gives me a warm smile and I smile back. We all stand for another song—“O Come, All Ye Faithful”—and I get a bit of a surge, like stepping to the free-throw line or something.
I don’t quite believe the story. I don’t see the connection from God to Jesus to me and back again. But I’m glad these people do. “Joyful and triumphant” fits the mood in here today, and it fills me, too. I’m glad I came here. And a part of me wishes I could believe. Part of me thinks I might come back sometime.
I hang around outside the church for a while after the service, talking to Alan and some others. When they start to disperse, I walk back to Shorty’s.
I’m feeling all right, so I’ll get this over with. I go into the bar—Christmas is the only day of the year that Shorty doesn’t open for at least a few hours—and sit at the pay phone. I take a deep breath and punch in the numbers.
“Mom.”
“Jay,” she says brightly.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, Merry Christmas to you, sweetheart.”
“Having a good day?” I ask, not really wanting to know.
“Yes. Wonderful. How about you? You’re not alone, are you?”
“Some,” I answer. “But not entirely. I hung out with some friends for a while. Went to church.”
“Church?”
“Yeah. I go once in a while. Some of my friends do. You know.” I’ve let her think over the years that I have a bunch of friends, that I’m relatively popular. Why should she be concerned that I’m a loner? She’s barely been part of my life.
“Well, I sure miss you, honey.” She always says shit like that. But we avoid each other like the flu.
“Thanks,” I say. “I know.”
“You’ve got to come see us soon.”
“Yeah. I will.” “Us” means her and Norm, the guy she lives with in New Jersey. I’ve met him twice. He plays a lot of golf. Cares a lot about his car. Smokes cigars. Wheezes.
“Did you get my card?” she asks.
“Yeah. Thanks.” A Christmas card with a puppy wearing a Santa Claus hat on the front, and a check for twenty-five dollars.
“Oh,” she says. “Well, I miss you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry you’re alone,” she says.
“It’s all right.”
“No. It isn’t,” she says.
I wince a little, because her tone is starting to change. That’s inevitable, but I’d hoped we could feign togetherness for a few minutes longer.
I hear her sigh. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
“It’s not a big deal, Mom.”
“I don’t just mean today,” she says.
“Mom …”
“No. Why the hell did he have to leave you like that?” she says. “He had no right.”
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’m fine.”
“I guess he used up all the whores in the county,” she says. “Had to start looking elsewhere.”
Jesus, this is all I need. “I’m not sure you’re being fair,” I say.
“Oh, don’t go sticking up for him
I’ve heard this story before, how Christ was born in a manger and came here as the son of God to set us straight and redeem us. And it’s a nice story, but I’ve always wondered how anyone could buy it so wholeheartedly, to accept without question that there’s this being up there who loves us and forgives us, and waits for us to join him in Heaven.
There’s an old couple on my right, the woman in a flowery blue dress—she seems to be just about blind—and the guy in a brown corduroy jacket over gray flannel pants. And you know they believe with all their hearts.
Next to me is a quiet guy about thirty, who keeps his eyesclosed most of the service, like he’s concentrating on every word, nodding slowly with his lips pursed tight.
And the minister says something about following Jesus’ light by lighting the way for others. And I swallow hard and look around. The lady next to me gives me a warm smile and I smile back. We all stand for another song—“O Come, All Ye Faithful”—and I get a bit of a surge, like stepping to the free-throw line or something.
I don’t quite believe the story. I don’t see the connection from God to Jesus to me and back again. But I’m glad these people do. “Joyful and triumphant” fits the mood in here today, and it fills me, too. I’m glad I came here. And a part of me wishes I could believe. Part of me thinks I might come back sometime.
I hang around outside the church for a while after the service, talking to Alan and some others. When they start to disperse, I walk back to Shorty’s.
I’m feeling all right, so I’ll get this over with. I go into the bar—Christmas is the only day of the year that Shorty doesn’t open for at least a few hours—and sit at the pay phone. I take a deep breath and punch in the numbers.
“Mom.”
“Jay,” she says brightly.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, Merry Christmas to you, sweetheart.”
“Having a good day?” I ask, not really wanting to know.
“Yes. Wonderful. How about you? You’re not alone, are you?”
“Some,” I answer. “But not entirely. I hung out with some friends for a while. Went to church.”
“Church?”
“Yeah. I go once in a while. Some of my friends do. You know.” I’ve let her think over the years that I have a bunch of friends, that I’m relatively popular. Why should she be concerned that I’m a loner? She’s barely been part of my life.
“Well, I sure miss you, honey.” She always says shit like that. But we avoid each other like the flu.
“Thanks,” I say. “I know.”
“You’ve got to come see us soon.”
“Yeah. I will.” “Us” means her and Norm, the guy she lives with in New Jersey. I’ve met him twice. He plays a lot of golf. Cares a lot about his car. Smokes cigars. Wheezes.
“Did you get my card?” she asks.
“Yeah. Thanks.” A Christmas card with a puppy wearing a Santa Claus hat on the front, and a check for twenty-five dollars.
“Oh,” she says. “Well, I miss you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry you’re alone,” she says.
“It’s all right.”
“No. It isn’t,” she says.
I wince a little, because her tone is starting to change. That’s inevitable, but I’d hoped we could feign togetherness for a few minutes longer.
I hear her sigh. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
“It’s not a big deal, Mom.”
“I don’t just mean today,” she says.
“Mom …”
“No. Why the hell did he have to leave you like that?” she says. “He had no right.”
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’m fine.”
“I guess he used up all the whores in the county,” she says. “Had to start looking elsewhere.”
Jesus, this is all I need. “I’m not sure you’re being fair,” I say.
“Oh, don’t go sticking up for him
Similar Books
